


It begins, as it will end, in a garden

by Tenoko1



Series: Good Omens Prompt Fics [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Angst, Changing Pronouns for Aziraphale (Good Omens), Changing Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Did you like Episode 3?, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Gardens & Gardening, Genderfluid Character, Happy Ending, Look just trust me and read it, M/M, Multi, Pining, Podfic Welcome, Prepare for squee, Stolen Moments, This is more of Ep.3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-18 22:16:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20320393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tenoko1/pseuds/Tenoko1
Summary: Like the cold open of ep. 3, this is moments throughout their shared history, all centering around gardens and flowers... and pining.--“Bit of a theme for us, wouldn’t you say?” Crowley held out his hand, palm flat. A green stem wove free of the earth, stretching and twirling. Leaves sprouted, emerald and vibrant, before blossoming into a bright white flower. He smiled, voice distant, “Gardens always make me think of you.”





	It begins, as it will end, in a garden

**Author's Note:**

  * For [majel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/majel/gifts).

> For itsmajel over on tumblr, who asked for a story involving greenhouses or gardening. Not quite what I think you had in mind, but my brain took the idea and ran.  


Adam and Eve fled hours ago.

The rain only just stopped, sunlight reflecting off the droplets that clung to leaf and petal. The entirety of the Garden glittered like a jewel. Like paradise.

The angel and demon walked through it together. There were only two humans on the planet, and both Crawley and Aziraphale had obeyed orders. Crawley had made trouble. Aziraphale did what he could to protect them.

Now they were left… to wait.

Aziraphale watched Crawley inspect a flowering vine, thin fingers plucking the curling end of the plant and drawing it down, pulling it taut before releasing it, sending sparkling droplets into the air.

The demon opened his hand, and the droplets stilled, suspended in the air, moving and twirling around each other with little more than a twitch of Crawley’s fingers.

“It is beautiful here, isn’t it?” Crawley mused, eyes on the water droplets he’d spun into a shimmering galaxy. The lines of his face were soft, and a faint smile curled the corner of his lips. “Was the Garden your work, Angel of the Eastern Gate?”

There was something… deprecating in his tone, but Aziraphale wasn’t sure which of them Crawley was actually mocking.

“Aziraphale.” The demon turned his head enough to slide him a look, eyes yellow and slit. Aziraphale shifted on his feet. “My _name_… is Aziraphale.”

Crawley inclined his head, coils of his sunset-coloured hair falling over his shoulder. “I did not mean to offend you, _Aziraphale_.”

Biting his bottom lip and wringing his hands, Aziraphale swept his gaze around. What was his purpose with the Garden empty? With his charges out there on their own? His orders had been to remain in Eden. What did that mean if those meant to occupy it fled?

“I-I did not have anything to do with, uh, the construction or design,” Aziraphale blurted.

Conversation distracted him from his charges missing, but not him from the fact he was… well, _fraternizing_.

With the enemy. For lack of anything else to do.

It didn’t distract from the way Aziraphale marvelled at the beauty of the demon. He’d been told those who fell became twisted, ugly monstrosities to reflect their crimes against God, but… but Aziraphale thought he was beautiful. Hair like a red dwarf star. Eyes daffodil yellow. The lines and angles of his face, his throat. The elegance of his hands and fingers. There was no other word to describe him but 'beautiful'.

“What was that?” Crawley questioned, head turning as he curled his hand hand into a fist. The water droplets fell to the earth beneath their feet.

“Sorry?”

Crawly turned. “You said something about the garden being beautiful.” An uncomfortable heat flooded Aziraphale’s face, and he looked away, mounting anxiety twisting him into knots. Crawley’s features softened, hands raised with open palms. “Relax, angel. Take a breath. I’m sure everything will be fine-- even with the humans on the loose. Everything works according to Her divine, ineffable plan, does it not?”

There was something wrong with the mortal form Aziraphale had been assigned. It couldn’t get enough air for some reason, making him light-headed with dots swimming on the edge of his vision.

Yes, Aziraphale thought, hand pressed to his chest and the other reaching for something to steady himself on, something was most certainly wrong with this body.

Crawley grabbed him, hand gripping Aziraphale’s, other arm curling around his back as Crawley helped him to the ground. “Easy, angel. Easy. Just breathe, Aziraphale. It's alright. You did nothing wrong.”

Aziraphale gasped for air, tiny, aborted sounds as he threw Crawley a scathing look. “How can _you_ know that? You’re a _demon_!”

Crawley didn’t flinch at the accusation, but his demeanour shifted, something subtle that made him feel far away even though Aziraphale clutched his hand in bone white fingers.

“Because you did more than I would have,” Crawley murmured. “I set them free. You sought to protect them.” He gave Aziraphale’s shoulder a squeeze. “How could that be wrong?”

“They’re meant to be _here_,” Aziraphale stressed between wheezing gasps. He gestured to the paradise around them. “And now they’re out _there_. How is that _right_?”

Crawley lowered his attention, so infuriatingly calm Aziraphale wanted to shake him.

When their gazes met, Crawley's expression was closed off and careful. “Because a gilded cage, no matter how beautiful, is still a _cage_, angel.” He shook his head. “Even if it’s hard, even if it hurts… I still think freedom is better. What is obedience if there is no other choice? Is it _obedience_, or is it _subjugation_?”

Aziraphale leaned away, face all sharp lines and disdain. “_Don’t you_ _dare_ try to make me question my order or the ineffable plan. Your job was to tempt the _humans_, serpent.”

Eyes narrowing, Crawley jerked his face away. “I wasn’t trying to _tempt_ you,” he snapped. After a beat, he held out his hand, palm just above the earth. With an elegant gesture, a stem wove its way out of the ground, twisting and unfurling its leaves and petals. Crawley plucked the white blossom free and offered it to Aziraphale. Their gazes met, and Aziraphale couldn't breathe for an entirely different reason. “Freedom is better than being a prisoner. If they weren’t meant to choose freedom, why would God create an entire world? An entire galaxy? The universe?” Breathing easier, but still looking very afraid, Aziraphale took the sweet-smelling flower, drawing it to his chest as Crawley’s words washed over him. “You gave them the means to survive so they see those things for themselves. That wasn’t wrong, angel.”

\--

With the floodwaters receded, Noah’s family set about building their new homes and lives.

It meant Aziraphale was left with the odd feeling of... hovering. Waiting. For orders. For purpose.

There really had to be something wrong with the human form he'd been assigned. Though he would never claim to know or question the Almighty's ways, he did not think angels were meant to have such an overwhelming sense of anxiety and worry.

Then again, given that disobedience-- of any sort-- was punishable by Falling, perhaps they were meant to feel every ounce of nerve-wringing uncertainty and doubt.

At least this time the unmitigated disaster was not Aziraphale's fault.

‘Starting over’ Michael had called it. ‘A clean slate.’

Turning away from where the last of humanity was beginning the long, arduous process of rebuilding, Aziraphale puzzled over how destroying everything could be viewed as a positive change. As progress.

Earth and humanity were, after all, God’s greatest creation. Angels had worked tirelessly to make God's intricate plan a reality. To fill the world and universe with life and colour and wonder.

Aziraphale had not had a hand in the creation of any of it, but nevertheless, he hadn't understood why the Host weren’t motivated to preserve their own hard work if nothing else.

But then the water receded, the boat settled, and Aziraphale had laid a hand to the door of the Ark, opening it and allowing the last of all life to set foot on solid ground once more.

To his surprise, flooding the Earth was not enough to stop the Garden. Or perhaps it was not enough to discourage the angels that originally created it, for already a forest was bursting from the ground and expanding outwards.

The forest continued to grow with every step deeper Aziraphale took. Grass spread like waves throwing themselves upon the shore. Flowers sprung free of their confines, leaves and petals open wide to take in the light of the sun. Saplings punched through the earth, twisting and growing with creaks and moans, branches and roots striking out in opposite directions like a race to see who would reach the finish line first.

Aziraphale’s blue eyes swept over the trees and bushes, the fragrant and colourful flowers, the fruits and berries that blossomed and swelled to ripeness begging to be eaten.

It was a work of art.

He had walked the Garden of Eden years before, but he had not been there for its conception, had not watched it spring to life as if by a painter’s hand. Words failed him as he witnessed such a glorious act of creation.

His awe was brought to a staggering halt as he reached the epicentre from which the forest grew.

The unicorn grabbed his attention first, its majestic presence now a heartbreaking and pitiful sight to behold.

It lay on its side, ribs expanding with shuddering breaths, an agonized whiny-- the sound of slow death-- emanating from its throat.

Aziraphale had tried _everything_ to comfort and cheer the unicorn whose mate had panicked and run off before the rain began to fall.

When the rain ceased, when Aziraphale opened the ark, it was the unicorn that set foot on solid ground first. It had done so by taking off in a mad dash in the direction its mate had run-- were they still in the same place as half an annual ago.

It was then that Aziraphale registered the figure kneeling behind the dying animal.

Kneeling, his riotous curls spilling over his shoulder in a cascade, Crawley whispered in the unicorn's ear, his voice a low, soothing cadence as one hand stroked the creature from jaw to shoulder in a steady rhythm.

“You,” Aziraphale gasped. Crawley stiffened, words dying off and hand pausing in its trek before resuming. The unicorn’s hooves kicked futilely as it wheezed out labouring breaths. Aziraphale looked again at the life springing into existence around them. He'd expected to find another angel, and instead, had found a demon and a dying unicorn. “Did you do this?” he asked, unable to reconcile 'demon' with 'creation'.

Life and creation-- _miracles_\-- were the antitheses of what they were. It should not have been possible.

Crawley’s head snapped up and Aziraphale recoiled, staggered by the sight of tears slipping down the demon’s cheeks and clumping his lashes, the way his beautiful features were contorted into sharp, jagged lines.

“_No_, angel!” he snarled, sharp points of his teeth flashing. “This!” He made a broad sweeping gesture to the suffering creature and then around. “This was _your_ doing! You and yours! _My side_ didn’t do this. Didn’t destroy _everything_ because it dared fall short of your_ expectations_, didn’t leave them to die of a broken heart after having everything stolen away. _I_ didn’t let the world drown, angel! _I_ didn’t let children-- the _innocent_\-- die choking on water! I didn’t condemn them to die _scared_ and _alone_!”

“That was not… I-I didn’t--” his words stumbled, tripping over feeble excuses when faced with the outrage and judgment blazing in the demon's eyes. “_I_ did not do this--!”

“_No_,” Crawley sneered, “you just stood by and did _nothing_.” He dragged his gaze away, attention returning to the unicorn, its eyes rolling wildly as its light faded. Aziraphale watched his hand smooth over the animal’s coat. “I hope your rain-bow was worth the _genocide_ that bought it.”

“Crawley--” he tried.

“Leave,” the demon spat, yellow eyes cutting up to pierce through Aziraphale. There were fresh tears in his eyes and clinging to his lashes. The direct order hit Aziraphale like a physical blow, knocking him back, a hand to his chest and eyes wide. Crawley's hands curled into fists. “_Leave_!”

The order hit him again, sent him flying off his feet. It felt like falling, except gravity yanked him _away_ instead of _down_.

When Azirapahle regained awareness, he was on the ground, head on his arm and dirt covering his clothes.

Pushing to a sitting position, Aziraphale sat facing the dense treeline like a wall keeping him out of the forest. It was a garden born of grief and injustice, and where the complacent were not welcome.

Aziraphale bowed his head in abject defeat.

Above him, a rainbow stretched across the sky.

\--

Since it was easiest for moving around Rome unnoticed, Aziraphale had taken on a female appearance for the extent of her current assignment. Her clothing was understated, a mix of creams and browns and gold, with her long, blonde hair tied back in a plait, a simple gold band encircling her head. The hope was that she might blend in so not even a fellow angel could pick her out of the crowd. Given the details of her assignment, the effort was unnecessary, but still a useful practice, she rationalized.

Gabriel had a way of spinning details into something grander than reality. Words like ‘subterfuge’ and ‘undercover’ and ‘utmost secrecy’ were just another way of saying 'watch what they do and don't make trouble'. She'd taken to the elaborate art of espionage merely as a way to alleviate boredom. The majority of her missions all went the same: observe from a distance and don't interact.

No one had let Aziraphale forget her first assignment on Earth, how she’d allowed the humans to be tempted _and_ lost a celestial weapon. The Serpent may have done the tempting, but it would-- always and forever-- only ever be _her_ fault.

Not that she’d ever been a respected angel, even before that. She’d been loyal and eager to please-- which made her _useful_, not respected. Aziraphale had the sinking suspicion she could spend all of eternity trying to be the perfect angel, and no matter how much good she did or how many successful missions to her credit, she would never be greater than her shortcomings.

Heaven-- or more accurately: angels-- were a walking paradox. In theory, they existed to _love_ and _forgive_ and _protect._ In practice, it was an entirely different matter. Everything was business and quotas a-and… _posturing_.

She didn’t understand it, but it wasn’t like there was another option than to keep the faith and obey. Aziraphale _did_ understand what happened to angels who _didn’t _obey.

_'What is obedience if there is no other choice? Is it _obedience_, or is it _subjugation_?'_

The market streets were crowded with people and vendors, the sounds of greetings and laughter and sales. Aziraphale quickly slipped through the crowds, weaving in and out, sandals barely touching the pavement stones.

A few days earlier, she’d caught a glimpse of a figure, just a flash of colour, she’d promptly stalked through the town until she saw them clearly, and to see where they were staying.

Her Mission Objective had been a brief check-in on Jesus now he was in his teen years, but more importantly, she was on a long pilgrimage, crossing sands and sea, then passing through Greece and into Rome, to witness and report back on the mingling of high-profile political families. Cogs in a bigger scheme, she supposed, but gears would turn as gears did, whether she watched them or not.

It wasn’t until she knocked on the heavy wood door of the lavish home with its stone walls and garden courtyard that she second-guessed herself. She could have been mistaken. She’d only seen the figure from behind, after all.

Oh, what was she even doing? It was a mistake. The _worst_. It was impulsive and short-sighted and just the sort of thing Gabriel berated her for. Aziraphale twisted, looking over her shoulder at the gate into the courtyard. She could still flee. It wasn’t like anyone would recognize her if they did glimpse her through an open window--

The door pulled inward, and Aziraphale stood rooted to the spot, breath caught in her lungs and heart threatening to burst free of her chest as golden eyes peered at her through the shadow of the doorway.

Crawley was female-presenting as well, dressed exquisitely in a finely-made black dress, her hair done up in an elaborate design with red coils and curls falling free.

The demon blinked, head canting to one side. Her dangling gold earrings matched the gold ouroboros necklace and the thin gold serpent twining around her arm, the rings on her fingers.

“Hello,” Aziraphale managed in a weak, strangled tone.

One of Crawley’s brows swept up, and she folded her arms. “Well, this is certainly unexpected.”

“I come in peace,” Aziraphale blurted, thrusting out the bundle of flowers she’d bought. Both of Crawley’s brows shot up, gaze dropping to the bouquet. “I’m in town. O-on assignment, I mean. Obviously. A-and thought I caught sight of you when I was doing a bit of reconnaissance a-around town, a-a-and, I, uh--”

Rolling her eyes, Crawley reached slim hands out, accepting the bouquet. “You’re babbling, angel.” She retreated inside with an impatient, “Come inside,” tossed over her shoulder.

Aziraphale scrambled to obey before the invitation could be revoked.

Given their last interaction, Aziraphale would not have been surprised to have the door slammed in her face-- or for Crawley to wield the most convenient weapon available to discorporate Aziraphale.

Honestly, given the level of power Crawley had, Aziraphale thought the demon might be able to discorporate her with a thought. Was there a demonic equivalent of smiting? If the fallen angel could weave galaxies from water droplets, make a forest grow like an out of control fire; there was no telling what else she was capable of-- or what the demon had been capable of before the Fall.

“So, am I part of your assignment?” Crawley questioned, handing over the flowers to a young servant girl. Aziraphale watched the girl disappear past a curtain hanging over a doorway.

“What?” Aziraphale frowned. “No. Why would you be part of my assignment?”

Crawley was stretched out on cushions and pillows by a low table, looking like a muse ready to inspire.

Aziraphale squinted at her, wondering if the demon hadn't been the actual Helen of Troy. It would make a kind of sense, what with the incomparable beauty and the raging wars her perfection inspired.

Crawley waved a hand down her form, jerking Aziraphale out of her contemplations. “Because I am a _demon _and you the _angel_?”

The servant girl returned, flowers in a pitcher. A boy followed after her with a platter of fruit. They set both on the low table, the boy encouraging Aziraphale to take a seat on the cushions and pillows opposite Crawley.

Aziraphale carefully did so, aware she was more similarly dressed to the servants than their lady.

Crawley gave the pair a pleased smile, oblivious of-- or perhaps unconcerned with-- Aziraphale's discomfort, before the servants slipped out of the room without a sound.

“Well?” Crawley asked, rolling her head to fix Aziraphale with an impatient look.

The angel flushed. “Wha-? Oh! Right. Uh, yes, well… As far as I know, my superiors don’t seem to be aware of your continued presence on Earth, so I’ve no reason to think they would…” she made a vague gesture with her fingers, unsure how to end the sentence.

Aziraphale wasn’t sure what Above would do if they knew Hell had stationed the Serpent of Eden on Earth with some permanence. Honestly, she didn’t know Heaven’s reaction if they found out Azirpahale had encountered the demon-- on more than one occasion-- and not even attempted to smite Crawley.

The two of them would, undoubtedly, one day clash in battle, but so far, their every encounter had been… more of a parlay. Aziraphale had come under the banner of peace for this exchange, as well.

One day, they would fight, but if Aziraphale were honest-- something she tried to avoid-- she was not looking forward to it. Aziraphale was loathed to fight in general, but she found she was even less inclined to fight Crawley, for reasons she’d yet to understand.

She didn’t think the demon would have the same reservations. They were soldiers in the same war, on opposing sides, and when they were given orders, well... they were meant to obey. They were _always_ meant to obey.

Crawley’s slitted, yellow eyes narrowed, mouth twisted for a long moment. “...You haven’t told them.”

Aziraphale blinked, blues eyes wide and lashes fluttering. “I’m sorry?”

“You haven’t told them,” Crawley repeated. “About me. About us.”

Aziraphale spluttered and blushed, indignant. “_Excuse me_? ‘Us’? There is no ‘us’, and I am certainly not sure what you are inferring--”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, shut up, angel.”

Aziraphale’s teeth clicked, nearly biting her tongue. Crawley stiffened.

There was silence for a beat, and Aziraphale dropped her gaze to her hands. “You didn’t make me, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Crawley’s attention fell to the platter between them, and she leaned forward in a sensual and graceful motion. It was something Aziraphale would never be able to replicate. She wondered if Crawley was even _aware_ of how captivating she was, beyond the beauty of her appearance, it was in the very way she moved and carried herself.

The demon drew a grape to her painted lips. “As though a _demon _could make an _angel _do anything.” She scoffed. “Oh, Aziraphale, you are _very _funny.”

“You can, though,” Aziraphale countered with a glare, “and you know it.”

Crawley’s expression went flat. “If I _could_, that would certainly be something you would report to your superiors-- and would make me extraordinarily _dangerous_. That’s not something you would just trifle with, and not someone you approach unarmed and waving a white flag,” she snapped waving a hand at the pitcher of white flowers.

“Yet you can all the same,” insisted Aziraphale, hands clutched in the cream coloured fabric of her dress. “You _are_ powerful. You brought a forest to life, and when you were angry--”

“I am _still _angry, in case you were wondering, Aziraphale_._”

“Because I followed orders.”

“Because you didn’t even _think to disobey them_, to save _one _innocent from drowning. Heaven committed _genocide _for a pretty ribbon in the sky, angel, and I hope you think of bodies floating in the water every time you see it,” she snarled, teeth bared.

Aziraphale dropped her gaze.

She did think of that. Often. So much, in fact, it kept her restless, made her anxious, more eager to please. It made her quick to accept missions, to travel all over, trying to influence humanity to good so that such a tragedy would never happen again.

She did not think she could succeed, but Aziraphale _tried_, and she hoped the Almighty would take that into account.

“You were angry,” Aziraphale repeated carefully, “and ordered me away, then _forced _me away--”

“And yet you bring me flowers,” Crawley cut in, tone as flat as her expression. “If I were as powerful and dangerous as you say, is this you pre-emptively admitting defeat in battle?” She lifted a brow. “Because it will come to that, Aziraphale. You and I fighting, trying to discorporate or destroy one another.”

“Not today, though,” dared Aziraphale, turning her head to the side even as their gazes stayed locked.

Crawley’s perfect mouth pursed and she dropped her gaze. “Not today.”

Aziraphale looked down at her hands, chewing the inside of her cheek as she attempted to puzzle out what made no sense. It was difficult to be honest when you didn't quite know what the truth was. She was aware the truth-- whatever it was-- was a dangerous weapon that could be wielded against her, whether by Crawley or a fellow angel.

“You _do_ have the advantage,” she admitted, “but I do not think you would press it. Not like that. A-and though we are on opposite sides, Crawley… though we will _eventually _clash swords… I bear you no ill will.”

Crawley considered her for so long Aziraphale squirmed, cheeks going pink.“...It’s not your nature,” Crawley finally said.

Aziraphale flushed darker, ducking her head to hide her face, shame and a familiar sense of inferiority piercing her like a lance. Perhaps something went wrong when God created her. Through no fault of the Almighty’s, of course, something was fundamentally… _broken_ in Aziraphale.

Other angels spoke of war and fighting-- of honour and duty and being a soldier-- with _pride_, but… but Aziraphale remembered walking through the Garden with Crawley. Remembered the birth of a forest, remember watching it spread like ripples caused by a dropped pebble. She remembered Crawley bent over a dying unicorn and mourning.

Aziraphale didn’t want to fight. Didn’t want to be a soldier. She just wanted to watch the Garden grow, see humanity grow and expand with it, wanted to see what new things they would create and how they would shape the world.

Crawley’s expression softened. “That wasn’t an insult, Aziraphale.”

She clenched her hands in her dress. “It is a _flaw_, though.”

Crawley’s yellow eyes drifted to the pitcher of flowers, considering them with a thoughtful expression as she idly toyed with a coil of red hair.

“While I’ll be the first to admit that being different-- questioning you orders instead of just following them-- can lead to unexpected and unwanted consequences, I would never suggest you be anything other than exactly who you are.” Their eyes met, and Crawley offered a smile. “Even if it means you would rather give flowers to your enemy than raise a sword against them.”

\--

Crowley’s chest heaved as he panted for breath neither of them needed.

Perhaps they had both been on Earth too long. Aziraphale was panting as well, his staff lost in the fray, and his grip on the katana unsure. The two-handed sword felt ungainly and awkward in his hands, too long to be wielded efficiently. If forced to choose a weapon, Aziraphale had long since taken to the staff. It suited him in his travels, as well as being both effective and non-lethal in combat. It had always served him well.

Now, the Japanese emperor was dead, the princess was hurt, and soldiers had turned the royal grounds into a battlefield of shouts and clashing weapons.

Aziraphale, too, faced off against his enemy.

Crowley looked like a dream, but the moment felt like something out of a nightmare.

The demon was dressed in grey hakama pants and a black yukata, his unruly red hair tied back with a ribbon. He stood tall and calm with a sword in his hand and a grove of trees and flower petals behind him.

He was _beautiful_.

And the reason people were dead and war was unavoidable.

“How could you do this?” Aziraphale demanded, overwhelmed by the irrational sense of betrayal.

Crowley rolled his neck, popping it in both directions, readying himself for another round. “I don’t _make _people do anything, angel. You always seem to forget that.”

“That does not absolve you of the influence you wield, Crowley!” The demon moved, and Aziraphale’s sword was up, blocking the downward slash and holding the weapon at bay. “That doesn’t change the fact you whispering in people’s ears has led to assassinations and war!”

“I do not _make _people do _anything_, Aziraphale!” They sprung apart and rushed each other again, sword clashing on a pass that ruined Crowley's sleeve, but left Aziraphale bleeding. “They create their own circumstances and politics and rivalries! They make their own choices!”

Somewhere, something was burning. Aziraphale could smell the fire as it spread, could see smoke rising over the buildings.

“That doesn’t make it right!”

“No,” Crowley agreed, grin crooked and sharp, “but it does make it fun.”

They rushed each other again, teeth bared in a battle cry.

\--

“Aziraphale, what are you playing at?” wondered Crowley, sounding far too calm for someone pinned to the ground, their enemy sitting on their chest with the point of a blessed dagger to their throat.

The bright forest grove was a deafening hush all around them, too still in its unnatural silence, as though everything-- the flowers, the trees, even the animals-- held its breath and waited.

For her part, Aziraphale stayed where she was, wings arched above them, her blonde hair pulled back into short braids. The humans thought she was a fairy instead of an angel. She was wearing an elaborate and ornate yellow and green dress one of the humans had left for her in tribute. It was intricately made, with straps and ribbons, exquisite embroidery, and a tapered skirt and ruffles. The melodic tinkling of her jewellery and bangles mixed with the rapid gasps she sucked past her teeth, face contorted in an expression unbefitting a fairy or angel, as she raised the blade and tried to bring it down.

It, once again, stopped just before reaching Crowley’s throat.

It must have started to rain because water droplets landed on her hands where they wrapped around the hilt.

Crowley’s wary apprehension softened, brows raised and eyes widening before he made a soft noise that made her think, nonsensically, of the unicorn all those years ago. He raised his open hands slowly as if she hadn't previously known he was unarmed. She blinked, shaking her head trying to clear it of the noise that made it impossible to think, the way the blood rushed in her ears with the pounding of her heart, the panic, the fear, the shrieking outcry.

“Easy, angel, it’s alright, okay? It’s alright.” Aziraphale shook her head, trying to clear her swimming vision. What was _wrong_ with her? Crowley wore a resigned expression so gentle it was like a blow to the head. It made her dizzy, breathe catching in her lungs. “We knew we would end up here,” Crowley soothed, lowering his hands to rest on Aziraphale’s skirt where her thighs straddled his chest. “It’s okay to end it.”

Because this would end it. Aziraphale’s weapon was a gift she’d been given years ago by Joan of Arc, at the beginning of her crusade and before Aziraphale left France and England behind, sick to death of brutal wars with no end in sight. If Aziraphale could just… just make her hands obey, make her arms bring the dagger down, she wouldn’t just discorporate Crowley this time, she would _destroy _him, rid the world of the Serpent of Eden _forever_, here in a flowering forest grove the humans thought was home to a fairy.

But she couldn’t, and her vision was unsteady and blurred, rain droplets continuing to fall on her hands, on Crowley’s cheek.

He shook his head, red curls cut short and fanning out like a halo. “You don’t need to feel guilty, Aziraphale. You aren’t doing anything wrong.”

“Stop talking!” she barked, but it sounded like a sob, like when humans grieved.

“You can do it,” Crowley encouraged, chin dipping in a nod, before lifting, exposing more of his throat. “It’s okay.”

Her mouth trembled, more tears-- because that’s what the drops were-- spilling over her lashes as she rapidly shook her head. “I can’t,” she sobbed, weapon falling from her fingertips as she collapsed against him, forehead to Crowley’s shoulder, fingers curled in his jacket. “I _can’t_. I’m sorry. _I’m sorry_,” she babbled, not sure who she was apologizing to.

Crowley? The other angels? God?

One hand on her waist, Crowley ran the other over Aziraphale’s hair with soft, soothing whispers. “It’s alright, angel. Everything will be alright.”

But it wouldn’t.

Because she was sparing a demon. She was _saving _a demon.

Aziraphale _cared _about him, cared about the Serpent of Eden-- whom she should have loathed more than anyone else.

They fought, they clashed, and they discorporated each other over and over. But, they also laughed and bickered, they met up for drinks when they weren’t on missions, they marvelled at humanity-- and complained about their superiors-- in equal measure.

Her greatest shame and worst sin was that she cared for Crowley, cared beyond that of friendship. It was a development so gradual and subtle, she hadn’t even noticed as her feelings bypassed treason and led right to willful disobedience, as loyalties shifted until she was left with a blasphemy that would earn her damnation and destruction if _anyone_, Above or Below, ever found out.

_Why_? Why was she so _broken_? That she would have these feelings for someone who would not-- and _could not_\-- ever return them?

What was _wrong _with her?

_I’m sorry_, she thought as she sobbed and a demon stroked her hair and held her close. _I’m so sorry._

Around them, the forest released the breath it had been holding, a breeze stirring through the flowers as the birds began to sing once more.

\--

“See this here, young master Warlock?” Brother Francis asked, leading the child by the hand through the greenhouse. “This plant here is called ‘mint’.”

“Like the money or like the candy in Momma’s purse?” Warlock asked, eyes owlishly wide and blinking.

Leaning against the doorway with her arms folded, Nanny Ashtoreth's red lips curled at the corner.

Brother Francis chuckled. “Like the candy, but it’s used for more than just that. It is used in _medicine_. And _tea_. It helps with an upset tummy when you don’t feel well.”

Face twisted with a child’s contemplation, Warlock shifted, button nose buried in the plant and making Francis chuckle. Warlock lifted his head, full lips poking out in a pout.

“It smells nice. Like a flower, ‘cept its _green _and doesn’t have petals.”

“Ah, good observation, young Warlock!” praised the gardener. He looked over his shoulder at the redhead by the door. “Would you like to explain why that is, Nanny Ashtoreth?”

She tilted her head, and he marvelled at how she could always be so lovely so effortlessly. Thousands of years later, and he still didn’t think she was even aware of it.

“I am a _nanny_, Brother Francis. _You _are the gardener.”

Smiling crookedly, he leaned closer to Warlock as though bestowing a secret. “Don’t let her fool you. Your Nanny is a wonderful gardener with a great talent for making things grow.”

“You flatter me,” she demurred, smile thin and dark glasses flashing. “Those plants there are called ‘herbs,’ Warlock dear. They have many uses, such as medicine, but also they’re used for cooking and making tea.”

Warlock’s gaze swept around the greenhouse. “If they taste as good as they smell, then it’s better than when I was sick an’ had to stay in bed and couldn’t play.” His head swung around to Brother Francis. “Do you make your tea for when you and Nanny sit out in the garden?”

He inclined his head to the child, but his eyes were on Nanny Ashtoreth. “Just so, young master. Tea in the garden, while you run and play and Nanny keeps watch, is a treat I greatly enjoy.”

“Do you also grow the flowers you give her?”

Brother Francis pulled back, frowning. “What would make you ask that?”

“Because Nanny always has flowers in her room.”

“Perhaps she bought them,” Francis countered. While they were working, Crowley and Aziraphale were meant to keep their distance from one another. That was what they had agreed on, and aside from easily explainable moments they shared, like tea in the garden while Warlock ran around with the ball and played with the dog, he’d thought they’d done rather well pretending not to know each other. “Now what do you suppose this plant is called?”

“Nu-uh,” Warlock countered, chin lifted and looking smug as only a five-year-old who thought they’d bested you could. “‘Cause I saw you givin’ Nanny flowers. More’n’once. ‘Cause I was _spyin_’!”

Nanny Ashtoreth came forward, arms folded and posture so rigid it looked painful. “Warlock, you will not make for a very good spy if you go around _telling _people what you _saw_.” His expression fell, Warlock dropping his head to scuff his shoe. She pursed her mouth. “Next time you decide to practice being a spy, do it _better._”

“Who do I tell what I see?”

Her red lips spread in a smile, glasses dark. “You tell Nanny, of course.”

\--

Aziraphale gasped, hands clapping together as he and Crowley followed the flagstone path through the gate and into the flowering garden.

“Oh, _Crowley_! This place is-- it's _beautiful_!”

“Innit?” the demon agreed, hands in the pockets of his jeans and chin tilted toward the sky like a sunflower following the sun.

Everything around them was in bloom or bearing fruit, as songbirds raised their voices to the sky and sang to one another.

Hands to his vest and face illuminated with joy, Aziraphale turned with a sound of awe, trying to take it all in and at complete a loss for words.

“C’mon, angel,” Crowley coaxed with a snap of fingers as he gave Aziraphale a look both sly and fondly exasperated. “Don’t want the tea to get _cold_, do you?”

“Tea?” he echoed, turning. Another gasp escaped him, followed by a soft, affected, “Oh,” when he saw the blanket and elaborate spread for a picnic and tea, saw Crowley holding out his hand with an unguarded smile.

Aziraphale promptly forgot how to make words, to form them on his tongue and let them pass his lips, so instead, he reached out, placing his hand in Crowley’s.

“We saved the world,” the demon said, then corrected himself as he drew Aziraphale forward, “Or, well, were _present _when the world was saved. We had a small part in saving it, I suppose. We did the Ritz.” He waved a hand at a pillow so Aziraphale could sit comfortably, and then moved around the blanket to lie stretched out on his side, elbow resting on his own pillow. “I thought perhaps it was time for that picnic you asked for.” He waved elegant fingers at the garden around them. “Bit of a theme for us, wouldn’t you say?” Crowley held out his hand, palm flat. A green stem wove free of the earth, stretching and twirling. Leaves sprouted, emerald and vibrant, before blossoming into a bright white flower. He smiled, voice distant, “Gardens always make me think of you.”

Face pink and heart pounding, Aziraphale took in the beautiful picnic and tea, then around to the garden that could have been part of Eden.

“Crowley, this… this is-- it’s breathtaking.” He looked at the demon with a tilt of his head. “Where _are _we?”

When Crowley had arrived at the shop insisting they take a drive, that he had a surprise he wanted to show Aziraphale, it said a lot about them that Aziraphale had no qualms allowing Crowley to blindfold him as part of the experience.

_‘It’s called a surprise for a reason, angel.’_

Crowley clicked his tongue and removed his sunglasses, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “Ah… a garden, obviously.”

“Yes, I can see that, my dear, but…” he looked around, trying and failing to place their location when he couldn’t see anything beyond the hedges and trees around them, but he could smell and hear water nearby. “Is this a national park somewhere?”

“No,” answered Crowley. “It’s, er, private property. There’s a house, well… _manor_, I suppose you could say, over, uh, that way.” He waved toward the trees dismissively, and Aziraphale twisted, craning his neck to no avail.

“Won’t the owners get mad we are _trespassing_?”

Crowley hesitated, mouth open before he gave a slow shake of his head. “Erm... no.”

Aziraphale watched him fondly. “And how do you come to that conclusion?”

Biting his bottom lip, Crowley finally turned his head and met Aziraphale’s eyes. “Because I own it.” Aziraphale’s mouth fell open, and Crowley dropped his gaze again, a noticeable blush to his cheeks as he plucked at the blanket beneath them. “I just… I don’t know. Wishful thinking? State of denial that the apocalypse was coming and we were going to die? I bought this place and…” his attention swept over the garden around them, before settling in the direction he’d said the house was, “and I distracted myself with the idea that when it was all said and done, we might break free of Heaven and Hell’s shackles and… just get to be. I needed to convince myself there would be an ‘after,’ so I acted as if there would be. I bought this place, redid the entire interior of the house and… and spent every spare moment over the past eleven years creating the perfect garden, hoping to bring you here someday.”

Aziraphale stared, eyelashes fluttering as he tried to absorb that information. “But…” he looked around and then back, “but why? Why so much effort? And secrecy?”

Releasing a shuddering breath, Crowley visibly steadied himself. “‘_I go and prepare a place for you; that where I am, there ye may be also.’”_ Aziraphale’s eyes went wide as saucers, colour flooding his face, though his swelling embarrassment was knocked on its backend when Crowley lifted his head, pain and fear and vulnerability a visceral thing when their eyes met. “Angel, it’s been six thousand years, and y’ know, if I’m _mistaken_ o-or _out of line_ I will spend the next six thousand apologizing so we can move past this, I swear, _I swear_, b-but I--”

“Yes.”

Crowley froze, then blinked, eyes locked on Aziraphale. “...yes?”

Spluttering a laugh, Aziraphale bobbed his head when he couldn’t speak for the knot in his throat, before turning his face away as tears welled and started spilling over. “Only _you _would make a proposal _blasphemous_,” he accused, wiping at his eyes as more tears fell.

A breathy, disbelieving sound staggered out of Crowley, voice hushed as he admitted, “Seemed kind of a theme for us, too.”

Chuckling, Aziraphale smiled as he slid Crowley a sidelong glance. “We do tend to do things our own way, don’t we?”

Crowley grinned, wide and unapologetic. “Apocalypse averted, humanity saved, and a _bright _future ahead of us, angel.” His tone softened to match unguarded affection-- love-- on his face. “No road and no map, but I’d say we did alright getting here.”

Tears under control, Aziraphale blushed and tried to fight a grin so wide it made his cheeks hurt. “I’d say we did at that.”

END

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Please remember to always properly feed and water your fanwork creators: like, comment, kudos, reblog (and tag), and rec their fics/gifs/graphics/artwork/podfics/vids/other works to your friends. You may think they probably get praise already, but I promise you they don't. And certainly not enough. Small things will make their day and WEEK. If you're reading a fic/comic, watching an edit, admiring art, or something else, be it for the first time or the fiftieth, whether it's new or they posted it 10+ years ago, let the creator know.


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